Tag Archives: car

StoryTime! …yay!

Its as straight-forward as it sounds. Story Time = a Time for a Story.

On with the show.

02 June 2007…
I don’t know if I’m tired. But I find myself on a cousin of the vinyl/plastic-y comfort of the mats that line all high school gymnasiums. In a certain New York suburban abyss, they were orange; here, I believe they are some sort of navy…. With my scratchy fiber-glass “blanket” that I am instructed to take from one in a series of garbage cans that hold things like scratchy blankets and useless sheets… And so, I feel absolutely exquisite!!!

…if not for the fact that I just ruined my entire life and/or the fact that I now share quarters with crack-addict middle-aged women felons in the felony tank somewhere in Van Nuys. I don’t even know where Van Nuys is. I understand that it is in ‘The Valley” though. A place where, unless required to by a work commitment, or a medical emergency, one really has no reason to be. No reason to travel over the wondrous Hollywood Hills to Burbank or Sherman Oaks. It’s like living in Manhattan and going into Brooklyn or Staten Island . Useless and time consuming.

But for not better, and much much worse, I find myself in the Van Nuys prison. I must side-track a second here and say that I was looking pretty kick-ass. My hair was still passable as awesome [growing out, but still boyish short and adorable at that] and I was wearing this totally unconv-trendy-like almost sea foam green Diesel t-shirt/dress-like, though sweat-shirt material ensem; completely off-the shoulder, it wrapped around just under my collar bone… with black capri leggings; lace at the bottom and ballet flats [this will become useful later].

After a myriad of finger printing and confiscating of bag complete with searching through and itemizing; counting of my cash; removal of all jewelry [rings, earrings, toe-ring, necklace… some of which I never take off]. I am sent to this random room then to holding cell; where I’m first introduced to bed-cots with aforementioned high school gym-mat mattresses while cold cold air blows on me. It is June in California , there is no reason that cold, cold air should blow on anyone. Though it is the valley, I suppose.

I am allowed to keep my jacket. In the holding cell, there are no scratchy blankets or useless sheets; and my exposed shoulders and bottom of legs POP with goosebumps. There is this one other chick in there when I get in. Sort of young like me watching some mind rotting reality-something on this television that is blaring it’s sound from the ceiling with it’s friend the cold, cold air. It’s like I’m on an ecstacy trip gone bad wherein all of my senses are hyper-aware of all that is uncomfortable in my immediate experience of the world and rendered unavoidable. [this is theoretical, mind you, I was not on ecstacy]. And this is also when I stop receiving information about what is presently and will happen to me.

I was arrested in West Hollywood probably a quarter of a mile from my house. The arresting cops were really nice. I dug them. And asked them a lot of questions about themselves. I mean, I was freaking out a bit, this was not part of the night’s plans or anything, but why not make it fun? There was this one rookie cop that was totally fresh off cop academy or whatever. I asked the other guy, seasoned and such if he’d ever killed anyone. He had not.


heh… I always say that.

It’s not a lie unless I die without continuing…

p.s. the fact that I got caught was surprising to me. kiko is above the law, you see. I mean, the rules never applied to me before this relatively ultimately debacle.

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How Do You Plea…?

I claim that I drove (instead of fly) across the country because I wanted to ‘appreciate the physical distance between these two places’ bypassing any cognitive miser-dom associated with LAX > board plane; and viola!, 6 hours later, JFK > exit plane. I oftentimes don’t ‘get it’ you see. This ‘it’ varies from situation to situation. Sometimes it’s a general central idea; at other times, its a wide-scoping, long range truth that I’ve been one of the only people unable to ‘get’. I guess the latter can specifically be attached to certain periods of hardcore drug usage and things of that nature’s lovely cocktail that I’d created with a quart of denial and equal part glee. The former (general, central idea) is less dramatic, more incidental and I’d suppose easily attributed to not paying attention.

I also suppose that this could be correct… though too general and very easily submerged into a sea of ADHD or Dyslexia. …wherein schedule II stimulants are forced upon blahblahblah… I believe I’ve made my psychological diagnostics argument many-a-time before. In short, I believe I may not completely pay attention because I’m just a careless listener, whom, at this point has become easily bored (due to past illicit and current less-illicit/dr prescribed drug-usage coupled with my most current years spent listening to people that love to hear the sound of their own voice ie. Hollywood agents, managers, actors and producers… and their mini-me’s in the form of assistants). …not that I don’t miss Hollywood, the west coast or the business. But I digress.

And so, I felt that it might be better, quality-of-life-wise, if I did it this way. Drive instead of plane-ing it, I mean. It is a grandiose, dramatic and, most importantly, typical move for me, yes. Much harder than need be, possibly impossible, and interpretively unneccessary. But the experience was not for experience’s sake. It’s great to be able to tell a good story… which this could be given the state of my car (which, itself, is yet another story… and has possibly been accounted for, in fragmented bits-and-pieces on this very blog ….oh how meta-). Right there, I have two possibly interesting stories. So, that argument can be made, Mr. Lawyer for the Plaintiff. …which, I guess would be the notion of experience for experience’s sake and a good story. Or my car?

I also have motive. As a sometimes practicing former writer, this sort of thing is probably always bubbling, however muffled or forgotten beneath the surface. This, I suppose would be akin to the genetics argument.

But I plea, not guilty, to these charges. And my reason? Again, I needed something this big to ‘get it’. Because, I knew that I may not.


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The Bus Ramblings…

The following was written on 20 April 2009. Forced to take the bus to many disparate locations all around Los Angeles, I found myself a writer of sorts… again [for the shortest of seconds and all].


“Somehow it is peaceful… No one in the bus (except this person that, at last, I decided was a woman that got on the stop after me)… Like, for the most part, this bus was for me. Quiet, too. Then the people start slowly trickling on. I don’t feel drowned, though. The old woman in front of me smells like something very reminiscent that I cannot place my finger on. Pleasant but hauntingly reminiscent.

And I look up and she’s gone.

You see, if the past is any indication of the future, this may just be the calm before a flailing and defeatest storm. I must say that I feel different today… But after a while, people begin to learn things that they’d rather not learn and
therefore be ways that they’d rather not be. Guarded, you know? …so that the fall out doesn’t leave one as it has every other day… An open wound… Bleeding… Raw… Even before the bandaid can stick to the slick transparent
salmon pink surface that was once covered with its protective sheath… Commonly referred to as skin.

So, really, there is nothing to think. Beyond the logistics of it all… That I’ve taken care of as throughly as can be taken care of at this point… And I kind of like the surrender to the anonymous bus ride. You know, so that nothing specific can be in my brain and I can sort of just be for a second.


Its strange though, I can write these fleeting thoughts down… I do posses paper and pen and all. But I decide to use the notepad feature here. Probably a very small part of the blackberry using community use this feaure at all…
Don’t really know in what capacity to do so. I mean, I’m not even sure.

But I guess this works for me for now.

Its crazy, the bus has taken me to a part of town in which I don’t even really know where I am. Oh, I guess this is sort of Silverlake… Hipster city. Willamsburg, Brooklyn’s west coast counter part. East coast hipsters, I’d imagine, are more high strung.

Which is weird… I mean, maybe I’m the exception that proves the relative rule, but though I cannot say that I’ve never felt a desperation in NY, its only since I’ve been in CA that I’ve ever achieved a level of ‘high strung anxiety’ that I thought, due to my chemical makeup, very very unlikely to impossible for me.

But again, maybe that’s just me. And the time and place in which I exist. Too many drugs, not enough time/desire to cultivate my coping mechanisms for a ‘real world’ situation/crisis.

Like I’ve been left back 8 grades in the coping mechanism grammar school of life. I think its more instinctual… A bit, atleast, than learned. So, I’m confident that as much as I can catch up, it won’t take as long as it may seem.

On the loooong line outside of the traffic court. Scared. Trying to keep my cool. Not like an acid trip… I brought the Edie book for a reason… I guess I’ll read it now.


Step #1: Hill Street; no curveball… Yet.


The home stretch baby. I hope….

I’ve come to appreciate hitch hiking culture with these long, wide streets and this heat and the impermiable still… Quiet… Save for a the few cars that periodically pass by. No doubt this town is a city… Strangely clean and widely
deserted however, I cannot think of it as anything but, The Stand somehow.

There’s a peace though… The peace that quiets the buzzing in my head. I mean, for a second… If all this extra external buzzing wasn’t already going on in my head and all.

Just that second of relative certainty I felt leaving the DMV this last time. Basking for a second underneath the bench looking down the long quiet road. And genuinely smiling for the first time in weeks. Though not ear-to-ear…

Ear-to-ear never again really… Unfortunately always cautiously so.”

And so it went… it was 105 degrees out that day… I ran around, flailingly, with a version of desperation that just might have just reminded me a bit of New York. I never really did feel the heat… but they tell me that it was hot out.


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Public Transport aka Night passed Night

Public transportation in New York is a… not given… not anything… it’s just how you do it.

One takes the A, C, E, the 1 and 9, the F… I don’t know. One dreads the L at every moment that they are forced to take the L.

fuckin’ grey shit.

… because the L is only ever taken by force. The borough of Manhattan is only 2 miles across. Walk that shit. One finds themselves on the L or more likely, waiting for the L. It’s never a conscious decision.

Unless one lives in hipster Brooklyn… in which case… well, enough said. You don’t live in New York… you live in gentrified Brooklyn… The ‘hip’ can’t actually be ‘cool’.

Plus, many of these aforementioned gentrified Brooklynites own cars.

Cars? In metropolitan New York?

Ha… fuck you.

But I digress.

after 10, 11pm … just like…

…night passed night. Yeah, you know, THAT time; 4am in the morning, for example. I don’t know when the frequency actually stops. When the urgency of people cease to matter. And the people must adjust their urgency to the frequency… or lack-there-of, of the trains.

One better like the wooden bench-chairs… the emptiness… and the clack-click…woosh of all the distant trains that aren’t theirs [one’s]. They better like that.

Oh and the cold… I always forget about the frigid freeze.

Because they’re gonna be there a while. And a while passed that while. They better be pretty fucked up. And wake to the noise of the train roaring into their station at last.

My car is dead… sort of. Monetarily; for the foreseeable future. On the IV drip that is mechanical life support. I believe it is on the accelerator donor list.

and… I, now, live in Southern California.

And as NY is to subways; CA is to cars.

But fuck that.

I don’t need the car.

I just need a really cool mix to listen to as the bus takes me where ever.

That’s another thing, what the fuck is a mix cd? Ha.


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